


Working from Home

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cooking, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7349377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somebody needs to make dinner, so Sam decides to.</p><p>Warnings: food mention, meat mention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working from Home

Bobby is swamped, fielding calls left and right, and something about Dean’s expression says, “Bobby, it’s dinnertime. Where’s my dinner?” because Dean gets real expectant like that real fast if you let him.

He rolls his eyes, waits til the call falsely verifying an agent ends, and says, “There’s beans in the fridge.”

“Guess I’ll just starve,” Dean calls back, his feet up on the table, the TV on. Bobby knows for a fact Dean likes the idea of fixing something up in a kitchen, his plans for a permanent home spilling out of his mouth one day after a long drinking session.

“Guess you will, you fucking brat,” Bobby shoots back, and it’s nice to have ridiculously petty banter with his almost-son Dean Winchester.

Sam is sitting at the foot of the couch, leafing through some of the books Bobby left on the coffee table idly, but he gets up, brushes the dust off his hands. “I’ll do it,” he says.

“What, you’ll cook? Yeah, no thanks,” Dean says absently, not even looking at Sam.

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean, meets Bobby’s gaze. “I’ll do it,” he repeats before walking past both of them and heading into the kitchen.

Bobby wonders if Sam can handle it by himself. Dean has some moderate cooking skills, and Bobby cooks for himself every day, having picked up a few tips from his mom and Karen and through his own experimentation. 

The phone rings, so he lets himself answer it and not worry about Sam for a moment.

When he does finally get up and head into the kitchen, the quiet clinking he’d heard Sam’s efforts provide reveal themselves to have belonged to the preparation of meatloaf, and Sam, with those big hunting hands, is mixing it by hand, staring at a Betty Crocker cookbook looking so peaceful.

It’s almost like seeing Karen. Bobby shakes the image out of his head enough to not grieve about it, but it’s fun to feel like a newlywed again for a hot minute. “What have we got here?” he teases, voice quiet enough Dean won’t probably care to listen.

Sam turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder and it’s fucking alluring. He smiles softly, shrugs. “Meatloaf,” he offers, and then, seeing Bobby step closer and closer, he giggles, hands still deep in the bowl.

“Oh, meatloaf, huh?” What is it about Sam doing this that is so hot? Bobby finally stops behind him, lets one hand rest right on Sam’s hip, the other curling around Sam’s chest. He feels Sam press back against him slightly, and he allows his head to rest against Sam. 

He feels the movement as Sam adds a few final touches, gives it a little salt and pepper too. He feels him mix and mix, holding him the whole time. Sam is finally done mixing, wants to move, Bobby notes, probably to wash his hands, but neither of them wants to stop being so close. 

“I fucking missed you,” Bobby finally mutters against Sam’s shoulder. Sam chuckles in return, and he can feel it, warm and fluttering inside of Sam, before he finally lets go and takes a step back, just watching.

Sam does wash his hands, and he transfers the whole mixture to a pan.

“I’m gonna sneak in to see you tonight,” Sam says so casually as he leans against the closed oven for a moment. He glances back at Bobby, the statement almost like a challenge, but more like a declaration of what they share together.

“Yeah, you should. This,” Bobby gestures to Sam, “is really hot.”

Sam beams before saying, “The timer?”

Bobby crosses the room to get it from the drawer, placing it in Sam’s hand, then holding it there, letting the contact linger. Sam’s gaze meets his, bests his, seeing deep inside him, seeing how much affection is there, how much regard. 

Sam beams again, giving Bobby’s hand a squeeze. “You know, Dean knows how to field calls. We could always head out to the yard for...a walk.”

“It’s been a hell of a day,” Bobby agrees lightly. “Labor laws say I’m entitled to a break.”

Sam pulls his hand away, sets the timer. Dean owes him for the way he treated him on the last hunt anyway, even if Dean will probably never admit it.

The sun is starting to set over the yard when they step out, making the junky cars look like a scene from a fantasy story with analogies about governments or social issues fueling its author’s strange choices.

“One with lots of room,” Sam reminds him.

Bobby’s back twinges at the memory. “Oh, hell yeah. I know. Don’t think I don’t know.” 

“I’m really fucking tall,” Sam gripes, just to drive the point home.

“And I’m too old for this.”

“You’re not too old for this,” Sam says, taking his hand now that they’ll be far enough away and have the coverage of enough cars. “You’re never gonna be too old for this. Stop complaining.”

“I don’t want to,” Bobby says, giving Sam’s hand a squeeze. “I fielded calls all day. I want to complain.”

“Well, I’m sure not gonna give you anything to complain about.”

Bobby reaches up to pull Sam down a little for a bright, measured kiss. “Me neither,” he admits, loving that dazed expression in those hazel eyes. “Come on, hot stuff,” he murmurs. Get up in that van.”

Sam doesn’t need asking twice.


End file.
